


Boy in a Blue Dress

by alba17



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crossdressing, Dresses, Frottage, M/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q's a different man after hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy in a Blue Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to significantowl for the beta and to disco-mouse for enthusiastically taking up my suggestion of drawing something for this fic, as you can see here!

The royal blue silk slides through Bond’s fingers. He follows the line of the dress clinging to Q’s slim torso until their eyes meet. Q's expression is full of mirth and a promise dances on his smiling lips. 

"You like it?" Q asks, standing there with his hip cocked as if it were routine for the quartermaster of MI-6 to wear an iridescent blue mini-dress in the office. It’s after hours, but still.

Bond had been hard from the moment he entered the office. It surprises him, being so excited by a boy in a dress, but maybe it shouldn’t. He and Q have flirted from their first meeting, when Q’s youth had thrown Bond so much it had been the only way Bond could deal with him. Then it became a habit, the way they dealt with each other, humour in the face of danger and all that. It was routine among MI-6 colleagues, although not so much between men. But Q has a certain charm in that regard, with his quirky good looks and cardigans hugging his slender chest; his dry wit that dovetails with Bond’s. He’s a bit irresistible.

But this Q is different, more compelling. He’s assertively sexual and it transforms the subtle current of attraction between them into a live wire. The contrast between the femininity of the dress and Q’s flat chest and wiry physique is perversely exciting. It’s the thrill of the new, the challenge of conquering undiscovered territory. For the first time, Bond notices the lushness of Q’s hair and the fullness of his lips. They demand to be touched.

“I do like it,” Bond admits softly. He falls further into Q’s dark eyes and his hand finds itself on Q’s leg. He drags his fingers up the smooth stocking-covered thigh. Q faintly shivers. Bond leans in, close enough to feel Q’s hot breath on his face. Their gazes lock and Bond’s fingers tangle in the hem of the dress before groping even higher. 

“I like it very much,” he says, just before his lips touch Q’s. Their mouths brush together in a slow, tantalizing movement. Bond pulls up the dress with one hand to grip Q’s hip. The bone is hard under his palm, the contrast between the slippery stocking and the slim hip ratcheting up his heartbeat. Q is a conundrum.

“Why I haven’t seen you like this before?” he says when he regains the ability to speak.

“Never been here on a Friday night, perhaps?” Q touches Bond’s face, a palm to his jaw, where the stubble is rough after a long day. Then he leans in for another kiss. Bond teases open Q’s lips and for a moment it’s all grappling tongues and warm, inviting softness. “You’re probably the only one who hasn’t seen me like this.”

“Oh, I’m the only one, eh? M knows?”

“She told me she was tired of the cardigans.” Q’s smile was wry. 

“What did she say when she saw you?”

“She took one look and said I didn’t have the right complexion for red lipstick.”

“I see you took her advice,” Bond says, pressing a thumb to Q’s magenta-hued lower lip.

Q darts out a tongue to capture Bond’s thumb, lips following to suck it into his mouth. The wet, suggestive warmth takes Bond’s breath away, a fresh wave of desire coursing through him. He presses his growing arousal against Q’s thigh. Q’s eyelids fall as he throws himself into it and sucks harder. 

The sight of Q’s dark lashes fanned against his pale skin, soft lips suckling Bond’s thumb, makes Bond’s knees weak. He leans more heavily into Q, brings a hand up to his neck, strokes up its elegant length and starts threading a hand through the black curls. He presses his mouth to Q’s temple, gentle near his eye, then down the side of his face. 

Q releases Bond’s thumb with a slick slide and a cheeky grin. There’s an imprint of rosy lipstick on the fleshy swell above the knuckle and it glistens with Q’s saliva. It’s the hottest thing Bond’s ever seen, the way Q’s lips let go of his thumb ever so slowly, his tongue licking its length, his lips holding on with a sucking motion, then softly releasing.

Bond stares down at Q. The corner of Q’s mouth lifts up in a smirk, his brown eyes crinkle at the edges with amusement. At the same time, he shifts his legs, a slippery sound like women dancing, and Bond can see the bulge between them.

“You should be bloody illegal,” he murmurs, taking Q’s mouth again. He brings his weight to bear against Q, just enough to show what he wants, forcing him to sit down on the desk behind him.

He pushes against Q’s wiry frame, relishing the other man’s solidity. It’s refreshing to be able to use his strength in a way he probably wouldn’t with a woman. Their mouths open to each other, seeking, a push-pull between them, while Bond’s hands roam over the blue silk, appreciating the masculine angles under the yielding fabric. Q’s hands are on Bond’s back. They feel massive; possessive.

Q’s legs spread invitingly, stretching the dress taut across his thighs. Bond breathes harshly and then he finds himself sliding onto Q’s thighs to settle his weight in Q’s lap, slotting their hips together so their erections touch, indigo silk against grey wool. He can feel the hardness of the zip pressing against his cock. He finds himself clutching Q’s shoulders, panting against his throat. “You. What are you?” he mutters. “You’re driving me mad.” He bites at Q’s neck, that long pale stretch between his delicate collarbone and strong jaw.

Q chuckles. His hands fall to Bond’s arse. “Oh come. The great 007. Thought you’d seen everything.”

“I’ve seen men in dresses before. They weren’t you.” Bond presses a finger against Q’s nipple through the slinky fabric. The way it hardens makes his breath catch. He does the same with the other one, then smoothes his hand across Q’s chest, feeling the subtle swell of his pectorals. “You’re one of a kind, Q,” he says softly. He starts to grind his hips into Q’s. It’s completely beyond his control. He wants to rut like a dog in heat, rub his scent all over Q like he owns him.

Q’s eyes glaze over and his mouth falls open as they’re both overwhelmed by rhythmic thrusting, Q pushing his crotch up, Bond down, so their erections press together in a line of feverish, exquisite sensation. It’s awkward and thrilling at the same time, both of them frantic with desire at this point. Bond knows Q’s lipstick must be smeared all over his face, he probably looks ridiculous, perched in Q’s lap like this, but he couldn’t care less, not when Q’s hands are all over him, not when Bond’s cock is rubbing against Q’s blue silk sheathed hardness and it’s utterly delicious. What would it be like to actual bury himself inside Q’s arse? Just the thought sends an electric charge up his spine, into his cock and he can feel the beginnings of his orgasm gathering. 

He bites down on Q’s neck, that stretch of skin that begs to be violated. Q gasps. Bond clutches at Q’s shoulders as his orgasm crests in delirious pulses. Q’s mouth is wet against Bond’s neck. Bond feels Q’s slim body shudder in his hands, warmth spurting through the blue silk. 

They both pant harshly in the otherwise silent office. Reality slowly intrudes: the fluorescent lights, the quietly pulsing computers, the government-issued office furniture. Q’s lips close on Bond’s neck in a soft kiss. Bond squeezes Q’s body between his legs, folds him more tightly in his arms, and thinks how completely bizarre and unexpected this is. “Well, that was a surprise,” he says. He releases Q from his embrace, takes his face between his two hands and kisses him full on the lips. He wants to taste him, chase down the passion he just felt and capture it.

When he lets Q go, Q gives him a fond little smile. “Yes, it was.” He strokes Bond’s cheek, holds his chin between his fingers for a moment before letting go, his eyes lingering on Bond’s mouth, then returning to his eyes. “Care to explore this further in more private surroundings? My flat, say?”

Bond chuckles. He squeezes Q’s waist through the dress. “Will you wear this home?”

“Not bloody likely.” He indicates the mess they’ve made of their clothes. “Besides, this is a private show.”

“Oh, really? Perhaps you can do a repeat performance. Classified, for my eyes only.”

Q arches a brow. “Perhaps. But only if you’re good.”

Bond rakes his eyes over Q’s form. “Oh, I’m good all right. As you’ll see.”

Q’s mouth twitches. “Let’s get cleaned up then, shall we?” He starts extricating himself from Bond. “Race you.”

He really was a boy, wasn’t he?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not the Captain's Kink](https://archiveofourown.org/works/886529) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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